


Came with my cool (I dropped it)

by liionne



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: And some sparring, Bisexual Steve Rogers, Captain America Steve Rogers/Modern Bucky Barnes, Coffee Shops, IKEA TRIPS, M/M, Natasha Romanov Is a Good Bro, Natasha Romanov: Professional Matchmaker, Post-Avengers (2012), Shrunkyclunks, Steve Rogers and the 21st Century, Steve is trying his best, Yoga Instructor Bucky Barnes, but super minor!!, minor mentions of blood, someone splits a lip
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-04
Updated: 2018-06-04
Packaged: 2019-05-18 03:09:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,228
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14844513
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/liionne/pseuds/liionne
Summary: "When you said I need to loosen up, I didn't think you meant literally.""I meant it every way. Mentally, emotionally, and physically." Natasha says, and thrusts a yoga mat at him.





	Came with my cool (I dropped it)

**Author's Note:**

> This was honestly going to be a 2k meet cute type thing to distract me from exams, and it became an 8k thing that took the entire exam period to write. But finally I'm free of exams, so here it is!
> 
> Disclaimer: I know genuinely nothing about yoga. Not a thing. I can barely touch my toes. So apologies for any incosistencies! 
> 
> Title is from John Legend's _A good night_ , which is sort of the tone for this whole thing.

"When you said I need to loosen up, I didn't think you meant literally."

"I meant it every way. Mentally, emotionally, _and_  physically." Natasha says, thrusting a yoga mat at him.

It's been about six months since that initial attack on New York, when Steve had been dragged kicking and screaming back into the world, and he still sort of hates the twenty-first century, but he's willing enough to let Natasha lead him through it. He's nowhere close to being caught up, but she's showing him the most important things, movies and books and cultural events that he needs to know about to survive any sort of normal conversation. Lucky for him, he's a quick learner. Not particularly eager, but still. Trying his best.

The enter the studio, and Natasha elbows him in the side. "Now, behave here. I like this place, I don't want to have to leave because you showed me up."

"I won't show you up." Steve grumbles.

"And the instructor is a personal friend of mine, so be _extra_ nice to him."

"Who do you think I am, Nat? Honestly." He huffs.

Natasha rolls her eyes, but there's that ghost of a smile on her lips. He knows she's playing him. "I think you're a recently defrosted retiree whose joints I can hear creaking every time he stands up. You need this."

She knows him too well, seeing as they've only known each other for about five minutes. He doesn't want to be here because it's new and strange and he doesn't... get it. Stretching? In a group? Sounds weird. Sounds like something he doesn't want to be a part of, cause he can stretch just fine on his own, thanks. But Natasha's always badgering him to get out of his Brooklyn brownstone (he had moved out of the Tower the first chance he had because _jesus_ , living with Tony Stark was tiring), and apparently that means going to yoga, or something.

"Do I know this instructor?" He asks, following Natasha to a spot in the middle of the room and unfurling the mat. Natasha works for SHIELD, so a lot of the friends she has are people Steve also knows from around, but she shakes her head.

"No." She says. When Steve gives her a look, Natasha snorts. How unladylike of her. "I have a life outside of work, you know."

Well, he does now.

"I think you'll like him, actually. He's a good guy. I'll introduce you."

Steve wants to roll his eyes. He doesn't need Natasha to make friends for him. He's never been very good at making friends, actually, but still, he doesn't need her pity friends, thank you very much. "You don't have to do that--"

"It's yoga etiquette, Steve. We take our shoes off at the door, and we introduce ourselves to the teachers when we're new." Natasha arches an eyebrow at him. "If you don't talk to him, he's gonna come talk to you anyway."

Steve huffs. He picks at the corner of his mat, frowning down at it. He hates yoga already.

Over the next ten minutes the room begins to slowly fill up, until eventually there's about thirty people in there, all chattering quietly amongst themselves. About five minutes before the class is due to start, the door opens, and a guy pads in with a yoga mat tucked under his (metal? that looks like metal. Steve wonders if Stark knows about that, seems like his sort of gig) arm, his dark hair pulled into a messy sort of ponytail. He looks like the most modern incarnation of a man Steve has ever seen, and he instantly hates him for making him feel like a grandpa, and loves him for how comfortable he seems in his own skin (and apparently in those leggings, yes, _leggings_ , which Steve thinks should be banned, because:

He hasn't exactly _told_ anyone about the bisexuality thing, but only because he didn't even know that that was a word until, like, three months ago. Okay, maybe longer. Natasha knows, because she knows everything, and Thor knows too, after an incident with some Asgardian mead that led him to discuss how he thought Midgardian labels were silly, yadda yadda yadda. But when this guy moves over to Steve and Natasha after chatting with a few of the other people in class, Steve is pretty sure that the entire room must know just exactly _how_ bisexual he is. God, he's so glad he wore sweats).

Natasha is smirking, that bastard; she smiles sweetly at the instructor, leaning up to kiss his cheek when he approaches her with a, "Natasha Romanov, in a beginner's class? Did someone lose a bet?"

"I brought a friend." She says, jerking her thumb at Steve. "He's a yoga virgin."

Steve blushes; Natasha smirks at him even more. Oh, he hates her, he doesn't even know why they're fucking friends in the first place-- James' eyes sweep over to him, and he seems to do something of a double take before he gives Steve a charming smile.

"Not your first time inside of a gym, I guess."

Oh, god.

"No." He manages. "But, Natasha thinks I could do with loosening up, I guess, so--"

Natasha muffles a snort, and James' eyebrows inch upward, causing Steve to flush a furious shade of crimson when he realises how that sounds. "Fair enough." James says, lips curling into a smile. "Well, just follow my lead and you'll be fine, I'm sure. I'll corect you if need be. You got any injuries I should know about?"

"No." Steve murmurs, sounding sort of strangled. He hates himself.

James gives him a nod and a winning smile, and then he goes off to the front of the room. Steve glares at Natasha with as much force he can muster, and then turns his gaze to James at the front of the room.

Yoga is oddly relaxing, Steve'll give it that. Or at least, it is when they're breathing and they're stretching. Not so much when James is coming over and helping him get into the right position, putting his hands on him in a way that Steve appreciates is strictly professional and genuinely helpful, but also burning through his t-shirt.

At the end of the session Steve really does feel rested, though. He's not sure how much good the yoga's done his muscles, what with the serum and all, but still.

"How was that for you?"

"A bit on the slow side." Natasha says as she rolls up her mat, smiling at James in that way she has, like they're both in on a joke that she hasn't finished telling yet. "But sometimes slow's not so bad."

James chuckles, and then looks to Steve, that smile still on his lips. "You did real good today." He says, reaching out with his flesh hand to touch Steve's shoulder. Steve doesn't want to be too obvious, but from his peripheral he can see pink skin, scars, no doubt, under the left strap of James' tank, hugging the metal. He doesn't seem too self conscious about it, though, which is good. He doesn't have much to be self conscious about, in Steve's opinion, cause in Steve's opinion he's pretty damn gorgeous.

Anyway.

"Yeah? Uh - thanks." He stammers, giving James his best, most winning smile.

"You gonna come back? A few more sessions and you'd probably be able to take the intermediate class." James says.

Steve rubs the back of his neck. Does James want to see him back, or is it just a one of those things? Steve has to pay for the classes, so this is probably James' income, and that's the only thing--

"Maybe, yeah." He says, before his train of thought can run too far away from him.

"Good." James nods, his smile a little crooked as he steps away.

Steve and Natasha walk in silence out of the studio, and it continues as they put on their shoes. "Don't worry," Natasha says, walking close to Steve's side. "James teaches the intermediate class too."

~*~

On of the few things Steve _does_ like about the twenty-first century is coffee shops. He was way too poor for overpriced coffee before the war, and during it his men had preferred pubs to cafes, so he had never really had time to enjoy a coffee shop for what it was until he had woken up 70 years later.

Coffee shops are good for people watching, and for enjoying a cup of coffee that doesn't take like watery dirt. That's another thing that he likes about this day and age: things have a taste. Food has flavour, because you don't have to boil it out, and coffee especially has flavour because you're not boiling it in the middle of a forest in Northern Italy. He doesn't like it too sugary, though - he tried one of those dumb frappe things but the syrup and the cream had set his teeth on edge, and _drinking_ that many calories felt like sheer gluttony. Not to his tastes, not even slightly, but anyway - coffee shops.

Steve can sit at a table by the window with a nice coffee and sketch the patrons as they come in and out. And really, it's not like he has much else to do - Fury is still apparently trying to decide if there's a more permenant, 9 to 5 type position for him at SHIELD, so Steve is stuck working out and wandering around New York and waiting for the world to need saving.

There's a cafe not too far from his brownstone where he likes to sit and watch the people walk by, the students and the hipsters and the old folks, the occasional couple, or a mother with a young baby. He sketches each of them as best he can, and then when his cup is empty and he starts feeling guilty for taking up the table, he goes back home, or for a walk around Prospect Park or something.

Today he goes up to the counter, orders his usual, and after throwing his change into the tip jar he joins the gaggle of people at the end of the bar awaiting their orders. He's there for all of ten seconds before he notes someone on his peripheral look up, and then look again, and then shift towards him. He really hopes it's not someone who's recognised him. It doesn't usually happen, the cowl helps a lot, but still--

"Steve? Hey!"

Steve looks up from where he'd been staring at the countertop, into the eyes of one James The Yoga Instructor (Steve doesn't know his surname, okay?). His hair is up in that same messy ponytail, but today he's in a long-sleeved sweatshirt and jeans that might as well be _painted_ on. Steve takes it back, he loves the twenty-first century, he loves everything about it--

"James, hi--"

"Oh, call me Bucky - only people who call me James is my ma and Natasha." Bucky grins. He smiles at Steve likes they're old friends, and it makes him feel oddly warm.

Steve gives a nod, and Bucky smiles. "What're you doing all the way out here? I figured you'd live over in Manhattan, y'know--"

Steve is grateful for the way he drops his voice; he's not dumb, he knows that people out there know who he is, it's not a _secret_ , but still. It would be nice to keep it quiet for at least a little while.

"I moved out here not long ago, actually. Doesn't take me too long to get back into the city if I'm needed, and even though the neighbourhood's different, it's nice to be back." Steve shrugs. Probably more of an explanation than is needed, but Bucky nods along like it's the most interesting thing he's ever heard, so he feels compelled to keep going. "What about you? I assumed--"

"Yeah, no - Manhattan's cool, and it'd probably be easier seeing as I work there, but I grew up in Brooklyn." Bucky shrugs. "Kinda nice to stay here. Plus it's just that _little_ bit cheaper, so y'know."

"Where did you grow up?" Steve asks, partly out of politeness, mostly because it'll kill him if he doesn't know.

"Borough Park," Bucky answers, and Steve smiles softly. He got beat up behind a deli in Borough Park once; it had taken him about an hour to walk home after and his ma about killed him once he got though the front door, but he remembers it now with a nostalgic smile.

"Jewish family?" Steve asks. Bucky nods, and Steve gives a small smile, a little less detached than before. "I grew up in Bay Ridge." He supplies, because he feels like he should.

"I know." Bucky nods, and then he blushes, and oh - however comfortable Steve had been getting it drains away now. He commits the shade of pink to his memory, so that he can paint it in water colour later on.

"Sorry," Bucky says. "That's probably weird. But - y'know. They make us learn about you in school."

Steve gives a little nod; he's used to people knowing everything about him, by now. At least before, during the war, it had been the fake stuff supplied by the USO guys. Now it's his actual life. 

Someone calls Bucky's name, sliding a coffee his way, a mint green frappe which seems to be more cream than anything else. Steve arches an eyebrow, to which Bucky narrows his eyes. "Don't judge a man on his coffee preferences, Steve. Let me guess - you're a black coffee guy, right? Quadruple espresso."

"Caramel macchiato for Steve!"

"Huh." Bucky hums, jabbing a staw through the mountains of whipped cream inside his cup.

"Are you staying?" Steve asks. If Bucky wants to sit, Steve might just feel brave enough to ask him. Bucky's easy to talk to, and he seems to quite enjoy talking to Steve, if Steve is reading the situation right (he probably isn't).

Bucky, however, gives a wry smile. "Nah, I have a physio appointment." He waggles the fingers on his left hand. "I'll see you around, though? Tuesdays are my week-day off."

Steve had been happy to handle the rejection (okay no, not happy, it'd felt like a punch in the gut, which he has plenty of experience with and has never once felt pleasant), but when Bucky gives him that little snippet of information, as if he might actually want to speak to Steve again... it feels good.

"Yeah." He nods. "I'll see you around."

Bucky gives him a little wave, this time with his flesh hand, sipping his coffee (if you can call it coffee) as he leaves. Steve totally doesn't watch him from his seat by the window; no, that'd be weird. He _does_ , however, settle down to sketch him, not too surprised by how easily the details come back to him even after Bucky is gone.

~*~

Steve really wants to ask about the arm. He refuses to ask Natasha, because going behind Bucky's back seems wrong in all kinds of ways, but he knows that she knows. Instead of asking her about it, though, he asks her how she knows him, the two of them rolling around on the mat in a sparring session that Steve had dained to come to the tower for.

"I was on a mission in the Middle East. He was part of a specialist unit - we worked together." She says, slipping past him when he lunges at her, using her momentum to grab him and pull him down to the ground.

Steve lands on his back with a thud, giving a soft grunt. "But you saw him again?"

"Total coincidence." She says, scowling when Steve uses his abs to pull himself up, flipping them over. He pins her by her shoulders, looking down at her. "We met at a kickboxing class."

"You do kickboxing? _He_ does kickboxing?" Steve says, and his brain short circuits for a moment, giving Natasha the opportunity to draw her knees up under Steve's abdomen and shove him backwards with them.

"Fuck." He mutters.

"I taught the class." Natasha says, giving Steve a cat-like grin. Steve groans, flopping down onto his back. "He was better than the rest of them even before, though. We used to spar one-on-one."

She comes to stand over him, head tilted. "That you giving up?"

"This time." He concedes.

"There's a class in half an hour." Natasha says.

Steve hums. As if he didn't know that - he has the schedule memorised.

"Come on." Natasha smirks, holding her hand out to help him up. "We gotta get going if we're gonna make it."

~*~

In the end, Steve doesn't have to ask about the arm. After a month of coffee on tuesdays and yoga three times a week (and yet Steve _still_ isn't zen - maybe he never will be), Bucky offers it up to him when Steve asks why he got into yoga in the first place.

"When I got back I was a mess, y'know," He shrugs, sipping at a caramel mocha frappe that's about the same size of his head, and makes Steve's coffee feel sort of insignificant. "I was too in my head, or I was too out of it. I got an honrable discharge and I had a good record, so there were plenty of jobs there waiting for me, but I couldn't trust myself to act... normal."

Steve nods, almost understanding. He's never lost a limb or anything, no, but he's come back from a war. Even during the war, away from the fighting, he'd find his fingers trembling, snapping at people when he didn't even mean to, ears ringing even in the silence from the mere memory of gunshots. So yeah, he has some idea, at least.

"And the arm - the arm was a _bitch_. I actually only lost, like, my lower arm, but all that transit and dirt and stuff meant they had to take a lot of the rest of it, so it had a good anchor, the prosthetic sat right, but it was..." Bucky breaks off, and Steve wonders if he's upset, if he should have shut him up minutes ago, but Bucky actually laughs, even if it's a little self-depricating. "I broke every single glass in my apartment when I first got it. Natasha went to IKEA and got me a whole bunch of plastic stuff and bitched me and until I used it."

Steve smiles softly, not sure that he can join in on the laughter when he wasn't there. It's something he understands, though. That new-found strength, not knowing what to do with it. In the lull that follows Bucky's words, as he no doubt thinks about Natasha and her plastic sippy cups, he says, "Y'know how many doors I pulled off their hinges in the first two weeks after Project Rebirth?"

Bucky looks at him, eyebrow arching in question.

"Eleven." Steve says, grinning when Bucky snorts. "People started opening them for me after that, it took a _month_ for me to get to open a door for myself."

Bucky laughs, kicking him lightly under the table, laughing even harder when Steve says, "And nowadays doors are all automatic, so I don't even get to put all my practice to good use."

He has to wait for Bucky's giggles to subside before he gives him a small smile, hands curled around his coffee cup. "But that's why you got into yoga? Because of the arm?"

"And the rest of it." Bucky nods, wiping tears from under his eyes. "I still have to work out, keep the muscle up to support the arm, but yoga... it cleared my mind, y'know? It helped me find some kinda peace. And it made me more aware of my body, too, not even just the arm. I started taking classes, and within a year I was getting certified to teach them." He shrugs.

"It doesn't bother you?" Steve asks. It's October now, so the weather is colder and it makes sense for Bucky to wear the longer sleeved shirts and sweaters that he wears, but in class he always wears his tank tops, the pink scarring visible under the left strap.

Again Steve's worried he's gone too far, and he opens his mouth to apologise, tell Bucky that he's an idiot and he's sorry, but Bucky just smiles, shaking his head. Maybe, for once, Steve hasn't been an idiot. Isn't that new. "Not anymore." He says. "Actually, the arm kinda helps - I felt worse when there was nothing there. Now people stare because it's cool, not because I'm missing an arm. And a lot of people have scars; doesn't stop them going about their day."

Steve smiles softly - he's glad, actually. He feels content, knowing that Bucky is happy in his own skin, because he _should_ be. He deserves to have that kind of confidence, because he's so gorgeous. There's nothing a single thing about him that Steve doesn't find attractive, god help him, so Bucky deserves to feel that way.

"For the record," Steve says, sipping his coffee. "It _is_ really cool."

Bucky grins, blinding and absolute, and Steve has to look away, sipping his coffee again. "Captain America thinks that my arm's cool. I can die happy." Bucky teases, draping his flesh hand over his chest dramatically.

Steve rolls his eyes, but there's a flush to his cheeks. He _does_ think that the arm's cool. He thinks that all of Bucky is pretty damn cool, actually.

~*~

Natasha convinces him to start sparring before yoga more regularly; the tower isn't too far away, and they treat yoga as something of a cool down, stretching out and relaxing their muscles. Their system works for a good two months until one day, when Natasha lets her guard down a little too much and stumbles a fall, hissing in pain when her ankle twists. Steve insists on taking her to hospital, but she shakes him off, and sees one of the physicians in the tower instead. They skip sparring before their next yoga session, but she doesn't cancel the session itself, telling Steve that she'll meet him there.

She isn't limping anymore, and she doesn't seem too upset with him, kissing his cheek when she sees him and only wincing a little as she walks. They take their shoes off at the door like always, and then head inside; they're a little late, so Bucky is already in there, setting out his mat. Steve gives him a little wave as he makes his way over to them, his stomach flip-flopping just a little.

Natasha is the first one to speak, arms folded over her chest. “You'll have to take it easy on me today, James - _someone_ sprained my ankle when we were sparring last night.”

“You said to stop taking it easy on you!” Steve cries - she had told him exactly that, thank you. He'd just done as he was told. For  _once_.

“I assumed there was a midpoint between being soft and kicking my ass.” Natasha scolds, but she's smirking. “I'll have to find someone to defend my honour whilst I recover. James, how about you?”

“You do that?” Steve asks, eyes widening a little. Of course, Natasha had mentioned that they used to spar back in the day, before Bucky had lost his arm, but Steve hadn't given too much thought to it. Stupid, really, because now the thought of Bucky, sweating, panting, pinning him to the mat--

“Not anymore.” Bucky says, taking a leafblower to Steve's fantasy, scattering it in the breeze.

“How come?” He blurts, before he can stop himself. He has the good decency to be slightly ashamed of himself, cheeks colouring a soft shade of pink.

Bucky flexes his metal fingertips. “The arm, mostly. It - I..."

“He's worried hell pummel me with it.” Natasha says.

Steve and Bucky wince simultaneously.

“Good job we have someone here who can take a pummelling.” Natasha says, nudging Steve whilst winking at Bucky.

“I'm not gonna punch Captain America, Nat, especially not with this.” Bucky grimaces, once again flexing the fingers of his metal hand.

“No, she's right, I could take it." Steve says. He'd been taking punches since he was like, eleven. He'd been shot at and blown up more times than he could count. He'd flown a plane into the arctic once; he was pretty good at getting beaten up. "Unless you're worried you can't take me.” He challenges, a grin tugging at his lips.

“Oh, I could definitely take you,” Bucky snorts, in that way that shouldn't be attractive but totally is. God, Steve is gone on him. This is such a bad idea.

“So fight me and find out.” Steve grins, because he loves following through on bad ideas.

Bucky actually pauses, looking like he's giving it genuine thought, before he huffs. “...I’ll think about it." He says, heading to the front of the room to begin the class.

It's not until Steve is sitting in their cafe (when did it become theirs? When did Steve start referring to it like that?), minding his own business, that Bucky comes up to him. He doesn't even have a coffee, but he has his mat under his arm so Steve assumes that he's going to work - he stands by Steve's table, blocking out the early autumn sun, and huffs.

“We can book a studio in the gym for before yoga, no sense doing it after, and you gotta promise not to pull your punches. I can take whatever you can.”

Steve blinks. "I usually spar with Nat before--" Oh, right. Natasha can't spar right now. Ankle. "Okay." Steve says instead, giving Bucky his most winning smile.

Bucky grumbles as he leaves, but he still says goodbye to Steve, because he's polite like that.

Steve doesn't know if he's nervous or excited, but he knows for sure that he's in trouble.

~*~

Real big trouble.

He knows he's in Real Big Trouble when he walks into the room where Bucky has spread various mats, and finds him with his hair done up a little neater than usual, though he's still in those ridiculous leggings. He looks up at Steve and gives him a slightly nervous smile, and Steve finds himself melting, for whatever reason, giving Bucky an easy smile in return.

"You gonna fight fair?" Steve asks him, slipping out of his jacket and his shoes, and setting them down by the wall with his yoga mat.

"Are you?" Bucky asks, eyebrow arching.

Steve pretends to act hurt. "I'm Captain America. I'm always fair."

"You're Steve Rogers, and you're a little shit." Bucky argues. Steve grins; he knows him too well. "Come on. Let's get started, 'fore I lose my bottle."

Steve nods, moving into the centre of the room. It's not exactly made for this kind of activity, but it'll do for now. "You pin, you get a point. Easy."

"Sure, if you're a genetically enhanced super soldier."

Steve snorts, but he gestures for Bucky to come closer, to take the first punch. And he does - with his flesh hand. He hisses, shaking his fist out and looking at Steve. "Are you made out of stone or something?"

"Are you calling that a punch or something?"

"Oh that's it, Rogers."

Bucky aims again, and the two of them slip into an easy back and forth, as if they were made for this; two parts of a whole, perhaps, but Steve knows he's being cheesy as fuck when he thinks that. Bucky keeps trying to avoid using his left arm, so Steve aims for it directly until he's forced to push back. The first connection of metal against skin is a little overwhelming when compared to the flesh, but Steve just gives Bucky a wicked grin when he looks at him, shell-shocked, and it's enough to taunt Bucky into more.

After a half an hour, they're neck and neck at three points each. Steve is pretty much sure he's going to win, but then Bucky somehow manages to get his feet out from under him and catch his face with his heel and Steve topples, hitting the mat like a particularly heavy sack of potatoes.

Bucky's eyes go wide and he drops to his knees, straddling Steve's hips. "Oh my god, you're bleeding--"

Steve raise one hand to his lip, touching it with the pad of his finger. He doesn't hiss when he touches it, though it stings a little, and his fingers come back crimson. For the record, no one  _ever_ makes him bleed. He doesn't think he's had a split lip since before the war, and it brings a strange sense of satisfaction, no doubt further proof that the ice really muddled up some wires in his brain. He grins at Bucky, who only looks horrified in return.

"You kicked Captain America in the face."

"Oh my god."

"You just assaulted a national icon."

"Oh my _god_ , Steve--"

"That's gotta be, like, six months in jail minimum--"

"I hate you."

Steve grins, tongue swiping at his lower lip to clean away the blood, curious when Bucky's eyes track the movement. He knows it'll heal in a matter of moments; it's only a superficial cut, not too big. Won't take much for the skin to knit itself back together.

"You can make it up to me." Steve says, his voice suddenly low, barely above a whisper. Bucky's eyes shift from his lips to meet his gaze, and he takes a deep breath.

"Yeah?"

Steve nods. He really hopes he doesn't have to say it, because he's not sure he can even find the words and honestly he's not sure he's that brave, but Bucky just looks at him, expectant, like he wants to hear Steve say it.

"Kiss me." He murmurs, his heart thudding faster now than it has the entire time they've been sparring. He wonders if it's the wrong thing, if he's read the signs wrong, but Bucky leans forward, hands on either side of Steve's broad shoulders to hold himself up as he kisses him gently, a soft brush of his lips against Steve.

It's everything, but it's not enough. Steve reaches out to hold onto Bucky's hips, hands sliding over his back, urging him to kiss harder, to take more. His lips part under Bucky's in a soft sigh, Bucky licking into his mouth and suddenly it's too much - Steve clings to him, shifting them so that he's sitting up, Bucky in his lap. They part, both panting just a little, foreheads resting against each other.

"This is a really big day. Kicked Captain America in the face, then kissed him." Bucky murmurs, somewhat breathless. When Steve opens his eyes to look at him he finds him grinning, and he grins in turn. "This is--"

"I know." Steve murmurs. He pauses, his hands on Bucky's hips. He looks at the clock on the wall; they have the room for a little while longer. "Kiss me again." He tells Bucky, looking back at him.

Bucky grins, eyes flicking from Steve's lips to his eyes. "Aye aye, Captain." He teases.

"Wrong kinda captain--" Steve says, the words muffled by Bucky's lips, and he decides he doesn't care too much.

Steve knows how he looks when the two of them show up for yoga not too long after - there was nothing he could do about his hair, not after the way Bucky had been running his fingers through it, and even though the cut on his lip had heeled he knows they're now a little pinker than usual, kiss-swollen. Natasha takes one look at him and smirks that signature Natasha Romanov Smirk™, careful as she stretches her sore ankle. "You two look like you had fun."

"Shut up." Steve snaps, unrolling his mat and stretching a little too. He does the class as best as he can, but he feels giddy. Whenever he catches Bucky's eye he can't help but grin, and when Bucky adjusts him throughout the lesson it feels even more electric than before.

"You're welcome." Natasha murmurs at one point, her eyes dead ahead.

Steve pretends to ignore her, and tries to focus on his extended triangle pose. He will thank her later, though. He kind of owes her.

~*~

After that, the time seems to pass fairly easily, easier than it did when Steve was just trying to understand the world, a pebble in a river that was moving to fast for him. He and Natasha keep going to yoga, and he and Bucky keep sparring beforehand, even once Natasha's better again - Steve just spars with her on their off days, which makes for a lot of punching but hey, it's definitely worth it.

He and Bucky never have an "official" date. They go for their coffee every tuesday, and with every tuesday that passes they sit closer together, touch a little more. By the time the winter makes way to the spring, they hold hands on the way to the coffee shop, and kiss as they wait in line, and even though people marvel over Captain America and his boyfriend, they don't stop. Why would he ever want to?

~*~

Bucky doesn't just do yoga at the gym, as it happens; he does it in the morning, too, if he doesn't have a class to go to, and he does it in the evening sometimes too.

He'd asked for Steve's permission to move the coffee table and practice on the rug in the living room when he stayed the night, and Steve was more than happy to give it to him. When he wakes up one morning without Bucky there, though, he huffs, taking a moment to stretch before he pads out of the bedroom. Abandoned before he had even woken up, it's just rude. And he can't even smell the coffee brewing - double rude.

He finds Bucky in the living room - he's opened the curtains and pulled the blinds up to let the natural light in, cracked the window just a little so that the sounds of the city drift up to them. He apparently had time to get at least a little dressed, shirtless but sporting a pair of the leggings that Steve loves so much as he stretches, shifting from a low lunge into triangle pose, and Steve has to lean against the wall for a moment, watching him.

Bucky is all muscle and yet he's soft lines, gentle curves; with the way the sunlight hits his skin, catches his hair, Steve wants to paint him. Commit it to memory, immortalise the image. He's remembers the first time he had laid eyes on Bucky, and had cursed him for being the epitome of the modern man and making Steve feel so fucking old. Bucky is more graceful than Steve ever thought that a man could be, a picture of masculinity that Steve never would thought possible before he had awakened in a new era. He moves through each pose with quiet expertise, and Steve has to admire that as well; he never knew Bucky as a soldier, a sergeant, and marrying the two ideas is difficult, but that's exactly why he admires it so much. Bucky and his hulking metal arm, Bucky and his military background, Special Ops - he should be too big, too clunky, and yet there he is in Steve's living room, looking like he was made for gentle poses and quiet meditation.

He finishes with a mountain pose, his eyes closed, and Steve is quiet as he can be as he steps forward. He doesn't know what he's going to say until his lips are already moving.

"I love you."

It feels right; he's never been more sure of anything, in fact, in this century or the one before it.

Bucky's eyes fly open, but otherwise he doesn't react for a moment. It should make Steve nervous, and it kind of does, his heart leaping into his throat, pounding like he's just ran a marathon (alright, maybe a couple of marathons - damn supersolider heart). But then Bucky breaks into a grin that could light the entire tri-state area, and says, "I love you too, Stevie."

And then, well; Steve has to kiss him. That feels right too.

~*~

"Steve, your apartment is like - it's not even like a doctor's office, it's worse than that. Doctors offices have magazines. And plants. Yours has neither."

Steve remembers when he thought Bucky was this super cool, calm, collected guy. Now he knows him as the whiny brat that he actually is. Such a shame. "I have books!" He protests, because that's the part of that he chooses to latch onto. In fact, he has too many books. He has more books than the New York Public Library. He has more books than the entire sum of all the Barnes and Nobles in the city. In the _state_. Fiction that he happened to miss - To Kill A Mockingbird, Catch-22, The Handmaid's Tale and stacks of Stephen King - and history books, science books, to catch him all the way up. He doesn't have any shelves, however (he was always handy but never strong enough to put up a shelf himself, and anyway, he never had anything to _put_ on a shelf back then, so he never learned how), so they sit around in piles, the only decoration in the room.

"Not the point." Bucky says, fingers brushing through Steve's hair as he sits with his head in Bucky's lap.

They haven't moved in together, not yet, but Bucky is around more often than not, especially since Steve gave him a key a few weeks back. It's nice. Steve likes sharing his space with another person.

Even if it's with the whiny brat that's currently insulting said space.

"Okay, okay - instead of coffee tomorrow, IKEA trip." Bucky says, looking down at Steve. "There's an IKEA like, half an hour away, and we can get you some plants, and some cute decoration type shit."

Steve doesn't know what an IKEA is, for the record. He remembers Bucky mentioning it about a thousand years ago (in the previous fall), sure, but has never thought to look into it, so he can't argue with that. He can, however, argue with other things. It's a special skill of his.

"We don't have a car." Steve points out. "How're we gonna get it stuff home? Take it on the subway?"

"We can take Nat's car."

"Nat has a car?"

"Not the _point_ , Steve. IKEA. Tomorrow. We're going."

Steve huffs, pouting. He stops when Bucky kisses him, and grins instead. That stops the pouting every time.

~*~

Steve has never seen a building as big and ugly as this one, except maybe for Stark (Avengers) Tower. It's bright yellow and blue and it looks big enough to get lost in for eternity. Bucky, however, seems pretty damn excited, grabbing Steve by the hand and pulling him along.

"No time like the present, Stevie, come on. You're gonna love it, I promise."

Steve doesn't know if that's correct, but he does kind of trust Bucky a whole hell of a lot, so he follows him inside.

The place has absolutely no natural lighting, and is set out like nothing Steve has ever seen before - lots of little show rooms dotted around, living rooms and kitchens and bathrooms all set up, but with no one to live in them. It almost feels like a waste - all that stuff that no one will ever use, just sitting gathering dust whilst people mull over whether they could cram all of that into their tiny apartment - but he has to admit, it does _look_ good.

Bucky throws himself down onto the first bed he sees, and Steve frowns. He's allowed to do that?

"You're allowed to do that?" Because he wants to know, actually.

"Course." Bucky nods. "How do you know if you wanna buy it if you don't try it out first?"

He extends his hand out to Steve, and Steve gives a gentle smile, a little self conscious of the people milling around even as he settles down beside Bucky. It's comfortable, sure, but just like the mattress he has at home, it's too soft and he feels like he's sinking into it, like he'll fall right through onto the boards holding it up.

Not that he tells Bucky that, though. Instead he turns his head, only an inch or two between them.

"I don't need a new bed." He points out. Bucky is looking up at the ceiling, or lack of, hair splayed out over the pillow. They're probably going to get lice or something, and Steve will personally hold it against Bucky when they do, but he looks so pretty in the gold glow from the low-hanging light that Steve doesn't mention it for now.

"No," Bucky agrees, turning to looking at him, lips curled up in a smile. Steve wants to kiss him, but he's very aware of the people walking past them, looking at the room they're in, and no doubt looking at them too.

Bucky seems to be on the same wavelength, though, because it takes him a good thirty seconds to pull his eyes away from Steve's lips.

He sits up all of a sudden, smooths his hair down. Steve chuckles, following suit and reaching out to tuck a stray lock of hair back into place.

"Come on," Bucky says. "Decoration type shit. Gotta make your house a home, Stevie."

Steve grins at him, shakes his head a little, but when Bucky holds out his hand again he doesn't hesitate to take it.

~*~

He ends up with a bookcase, and more plants, cushions and blankets than he can make sense of. Bucky grabs most of it, asks him if he likes it, gives him idea of where it can go and what it can be used for; Steve does like the plants, and he indulges him when it comes to the blankets, though the idea of getting snuggly under a pile of blankets with Bucky is pretty great.

They get photo frames, too, but that's Steve's idea - he has a lot of photos of Bucky that he wouldn't mind framing, and he supposes there's some of his art he could frame, too. Bucky seems to like the idea.

And it's nice, decorating his space together. It makes it feel more like _their_ space, something that Steve realises he's aching for the longer it goes on.

It all comes crashing down around their ears, though, when they try to assemble the bookcase.

"Oh my god, this is going to take all night. Why did we do this?"

"You tell me, pal, it was your idea."

Bucky groans, turning the piece of paper over once, and then again.

"Why aren't there any words?" Steve asks, peering at it over his shoulder. Admittedly he can appreciate it for what it is, because the drawings are pretty clear, but instructions tend to have words, right? Cause it's easier to build an entire bookcase from spare parts if you have words telling you exactly what goes exactly where, and you're not trying to decipher what the hell is going on, or relating to the strangely drawn little man with the sad frowny face.

The twenty-first century is weird.

"Because they hate us, Steven." Bucky replies, and Steve chuckles, knocking him gently with his shoulder. Bucky turns to look at him, catches his lips in a kiss that Steve knows is meant to be quick, but he deepens it anyway, until Bucky swats at him, laughing as he pulls away. "Okay, we're never gonna get it done if you keep that up."

"If we get it done we can get back to that though, right?"

"It's a pretty good incentive." Bucky hums his agreement.

It takes them only another three hours. Three hours of swearing, hissing and general misery, but at the end of it they _do_ have a functioning bookcase. Or Steve does, anyway. It's still just his, for the time being.

"Do we have to put the books in it, like, right now?" Bucky asks around a yawn. They didn't get back from IKEA until dinnertime, and putting up the bookshelf has taken them almost to ten o'clock. Steve shakes his head, pulling Bucky onto the couch, into a pile of pillows. Bucky has the good sense to cover them with one of his many blankets, settling between Steve's legs, chest to chest.

"Nah, I think they can wait." Steve murmurs, kissing the top of his head. Bucky hums softly, wriggling until he's comfortable.

It's not late, not really, but it's easy enough to nod off, warm and comfortable, with Bucky wrapped around him and the trauma of the bookcase behind them.

"Don't mind if i stay the night?" Bucky murmurs into Steve's chest, his eyes already closed.

"Course not, Buck." He'll have to get up extra early in the morning to get to his early yoga class in time, but it doesn't seem to bother him. "We gotta relocate to the bed, though."

"You gonna carry me, Captain?"

"You've got legs."

"Mm, sleepy legs."

Steve snorts softly, but he sits up, shifts Bucky into his lap, and then lifts him, carrying him bridal-style towards the bedroom. It should be more difficult - Bucky isn't light by any stretch of the imagination, but Steve can lift _cars_ , so he's not so bad.

They separate long enough to strip down to their underwear, too tired to go digging around for pyjamas, and Bucky curls himself around Steve once more as soon as they get under the covers. His bed still feels strange, for sure, but it doesn't seem so bad when Bucky's in it with him. 

~*~

"We need to name the plants." Bucky says over breakfast.

Steve doesn't even respond to that, not verbally - he just raises an eyebrow.

"You gotta name 'em, Stevie. You have to talk to them, and it's easier if they have names."

Steve hasn't had his coffee yet, see, so it takes him a moment to unpack all of that. "What do you wanna call 'em?" He asks - it's easier than fighting.

By the time Bucky leaves for his apartment a half an hour later, Steve's living room is filled not with plants, but plants with  _names_ \- the aloe becomes Derek, the anthurium Linda, and the peace lily Sandra. Steve names the weeping fig James, at first, because "It's sad and droopy just like you, Buck", but then Bucky punches him in the gut so they rename it Andy.

It's ridiculous, but once Bucky leaves, Steve realises he kind of loves that too.

~*~

Sparring with Bucky now is a lot easier than it was at the beginning; at the beginning he pulled his punches, avoided using his left hand, was intent on not hurting Steve (even after splitting his lip). But the more they do it, the more he wants to win, the cockier he gets, and the more they get to know each other's skillsets, the more of a challenge it becomes.

Bucky is surprisingly acrobatic in a way that Steve isn't. Steve does a lot of flipping and jumping out in the field, sure, trying to conserve energy as he flits from scene to scene, but when he spars he plants his feet firmly, he uses his strength.

It's obvious that Bucky used to spar with Natasha, because he uses a lot of her moves, even though he's a hell of a lot bigger and a hell of a lot heavier. When he pins Steve to the mat with his thighs either side of Steve's head, Steve can't help but be a little bit in awe of him. How'd he get so lucky? 

"Pretty sure you could'a snapped my neck just then."

"You think?"

"Probably."

"If I tried?"

"Please don't try."

"Okay," Bucky concedes, grins. "But only cause you said please."

Steve rolls his eyes, but he uses the opportunity to sit up, flip them over, Bucky's back hitting the mat with a muted thud. Steve slithers up his body to put them face to face, tucked between Bucky's legs. Bucky huffs - he hates moves like that. He doesn't, however, hate the outcome.

"Y'know, my sessions with Nat don't tend to end this way." Steve says as Bucky wraps his legs around Steve's waist, pulling him down and grinding against him, just a little.

"They don't?"

"Yours did?"

"That'd be telling."

Bucky grins wickedly, even wider when Steve's breath hitches, and Steve'll think about that _later_ , because right now he has bigger things to be thinking about, something that Bucky is eager to remind him of as his hands slip down Steve's body to push his sweatpants down his hips.

~*~

There are still missions to go on, though. Not many, mind, it's almost suspiciously quiet, but every so often there's a guy in Montenegro trying to enslave central Europe, or another guy in the Antarctic trying to build a death ray. It happens. Steve comes home in one piece every time, only ever away for a few days. It seems to worry Bucky, but not too much. He's seen battle. He knows Steve. Knows that he'll be fine.

Until the next time. It's a bit of a bigger mission, this time - Steve is whisked away to Argentina for what should be a few days, and ends up stretching into a week, the fighting never ending. When he finds out that the people trying to recreate the supersoldiers in their little (read: seriously freaking huge, with ten stories underground compared to the three or four above it) Argentinian bunker have been using unwilling civillians to practice upon, he vows to get everyone out, and raze the building to the ground. Or below the ground, Clint points out. Steve rolls his eyes.

There are cameras, watching their every move, Argentinian news stations at first and then more, American ones too, no doubt, so Steve assumes that even if he can't call Bucky, Bucky knows that he's okay. He can see him, knows he's not dead. He wishes he could call, misses him like crazy, but he has to work. He hates it, but he's determined, pushing through the pain and the fatigue.

After almost two weeks, he returns home weary and ready for a shower, but he only manages to get about three steps in the door before he's being slammed against the wall beside it, the door swinging shut of its own volition. Steve's hackles rise, ready to attack even if he's weary from days spent in near-constant battle, but then he takes in Bucky, in his tank top and his messy ponytail, and even though he looks mad as hell, Steve relaxes.

“Steven goddamn Rogers!” He snarls, pinning Steve to the wall. It's kinda scary, definitely hot - Steve's lucky that his body is too tired to properly respond.

“It's Grant, actually,” he says, and probably deserves it when Bucky presses him harder into the plaster.

“They told you to get out, Steve, I heard it on the news. Stark said to get out, cause the building was gonna collapse, and you went back in anyway! You ran right in there like you hadn't even heard him--”

“Bucky,” Steve murmurs.

“--putting yourself in danger, you asshole, dumb piece of--”

“Bucky.”

Bucky stops, jaw clicking shut so that his teeth grind. Not good, but at least he's quiet, Steve thinks.

“I'm okay.” He says. He slides his hands up Bucky's side, over his chest, cradling his face - he's so glad he ditched the gloves on the way up the stairs. “I'm okay.”

Bucky keeps glaring, though, so Steve decides to switch tactics: distraction.

“What are you doing here, anyway? It's late." Or rather, early - pushing 4am.

“I had to water the plants.” Bucky mutters, releasing Steve's shoulders and walking away, flopping down onto the couch. The news is still playing, following the story even though the Avengers are no longer there. Steve notices how his eyes flick to it, and then quickly look away again. “They were starting to look sad.”

“Well, that's what I gave you the key for.” Steve murmurs, shucking the outer confines of his suit. He feels dirty, like he needs a good shower, and bone-tired, but he doesn't go to bed. He leaves the Kevlar on the floor and moves further into the living room in his compression shirt, smiling softly when he realises that he and Bucky are matching on the leggings front. Bucky snorts softly, but he doesn't look at him. Steve moves to sit next to him on the couch, giving him space. “Amongst other things.”

“Other things?” Bucky mutters.

“Yeah. Y’know. Like coming and going as you please. Want you to feel like you can come over whenever you like.”

That gets Bucky to smile, and he actually turns to look at Steve. And then he scowls, and kicks Steve in the thigh. “No. Fuck off. I'm mad at you.”

Steve waits. Counts to ten. Bucky breathes out harshly through his nostrils. “You're really okay?”

“Not a mark on me.” Steve assures him. Bucky sighs, shifts so that he can lay his head in Steve's lap. 

“I'm still mad At you.” He says.

“Sure you are.” Steve smiles.

“Youre a jackass.”

“Mmhm.”

“Irresponsible.”

“Sure.”

“Got a death wish.”

Steve considers that one. “Maybe.” He allows. “You love me anyway.”

“I do.” Bucky sighs. “God help me.”

Steve pauses for a moment, and then he looks down at Bucky, runs his fingers through his hair. "I'm sorry I scared you."

Bucky closes his eyes, but he shakes his head. "I guess I better get used to it, huh?"

Steve's chest aches a little, and he combs his fingers through Bucky's hair to distract him from it. "If you lived here, you could be here for me coming home. Y'know, without having to make the effort. Without shitty excuses about the plants." He teases.

Bucky's eyes open slowly, blinking up at him once more. "Yeah?"

"Yeah." Steve murmurs. "It wouldn't make the rest any easier, but--"

Bucky sits up, frames Steve's face with his hands and kisses him, soft and sweet and slow. "It would. I don't know how, but - it would."

"So that's a yes?" Steve asks, voice barely above a whisper.

Bucky smiles, doesn't pull back as he looks at Steve, their noses brushing. "'Course it's a yes, Steve." He says, laughing as Steve laughs too, pausing only to kiss him. "Plus, this place is way bigger than mine. And way nicer. Less likely to fall down on you when you're sleeping."

Steve snorts at that, but he pulls Bucky closer for another kiss, shifting him into his lap. He shouldn't be surpised when Bucky pulls back a moment later, pushing at him. "You aren't off the hook." He warns. "But you'll be closer to my good books if you go shower - you stink, Rogers."

"You're so mean to me," Steve pouts, extracating himself from Bucky so he can head to the bathroom. "Why do I love you, again?"

"My zen nature and my fabulous ass."

"Ah, the leggings."

"Mm hm."

Steve grins, heart doing a tiny backflip when Bucky grins back at him. "I love you." He says.

"Yeah, Steve." Bucky smiles. "I love you too."

**Author's Note:**

> I've also been dying to write shrunkyclunks for a while now - I hope I did okay?
> 
> Thanks for reading! You can leave any questions or comments or whatever below or at [my tumblr](http://liionne.tumblr.com/ask)


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